Morning dawned bright and early, and Claire woke up to the smell of frying bacon. She stumbled to the bathroom down the hall, yawning, barely aware that she was scantily dressed in her extra-long T-shirt until she remembered, Oh my God, boys live here, too. Luckily, nobody saw, and the bathroom was free. Somebody had already been in it this morning; the mirrors were still frosted with steam, and the big black-and-white room glistened with drops of water. It smelled clean, though. And kind of fruity.
The fruity smell was the shampoo, she found, as she lathered and rinsed. When she wiped the mirror down and stared at herself, she saw the patterns of bruises up and down both sides of her pale skin. I could have died. She'd been lucky.
She tossed the T-shirt back on, then dashed back to her room to dig out the panties she'd rescued yesterday from the washer. They were still damp, but she put them on anyway, then dragged on blue jeans.
On impulse, she opened the closet, and found some old stuff pushed to the back. T-shirts, mostly, from bands she'd never heard of, and a few she remembered as ancient. A couple of sweaters, too. She stripped off her bloodstained shirt and dragged on a faded black one, and, after thinking about it, left her shoes on the floor.
Downstairs, Eve and Shane were arguing in the kitchen about the right way to make scrambled eggs. Eve said they needed milk. Shane said milk was for pussies. Claire padded silently past them, over to the refrigerator, and pulled out a carton of orange juice. She splashed some into a glass, then silently held the carton up for the other two. Eve took it and poured herself a glass, then handed it to Shane.
"So," Shane asked, "Michael didn't pitch you out."
"No."
Shane nodded slowly. He was even bigger and taller than she remembered, and his skin was a golden brown color, like he'd spent a lot of time in the sun over the summer. His hair had that bronzy sheen, too.
Sun-bleached where Michael was naturally blond. Okay, truthfully? They're both hotties. She wished she hadn't really thought that, but at least she hadn't said it out loud.
"Something you should know about Michael," he said. "He doesn't like taking chances. I wasn't sure he'd let you stay. If he did, then he got a good vibe off of you. Don't disrespect that, because if you do - I won't be happy, either. Got it?"
Eve was silently watching the two of them, which Claire figured was a new experience for Eve, at least the not-talking part. "He's your friend, right?"
"He saved my life," Shane said. "I'd die for him, but it'd be a dumbass thing to do to thank him for it. So yeah. He's been my friend all my life, and he's more like a brother. So don't get him in trouble."
"I won't," she said. "No milk in the eggs."
"See?" Shane turned back to the counter and started cracking eggs into a bowl. "Told ya."
"Traitor," Eve sighed, and poked at the frying bacon with a fork. "Fine. So. How was Linda last night?"
"Laura."
"Whatever. Not like I have to remember a name for more than one date, anyway."
"She bowled a one fifty."
"God, you're such a disappointment. Share, already!"
Shane smiled tightly down at the eggs. "Hey, not in front of the kid. You got the note."
"Kid?" That hurt. Claire dropped plates on the counter with a little too much force. "Note?"
Shane handed over a folded piece of paper. It was short and sweet, and signed "Michael"...and it told them that Claire was underage, and that the two of them were supposed to look out for her while she was in the house.
Cute. Claire didn't know whether to be pissed or flattered. On reflection...pissed. "I'm not a kid!" she told Shane hotly. "I'm only, like, a year younger than Eve!"
"And girls are much more mature." Eve nodded wisely. "So you're about ten years older than Shane, then."
"Seriously," Claire insisted. "I'm not a kid!"
"Whatever you say, kid," Shane said blandly. "Cheer up. Just means you don't have to put up with me telling you how much sex I didn't get."
"I'm telling Michael," Eve warned.
"About how much sex I didn't get? Go ahead."
"No bacon for you."
"Then no eggs for you. Either of you."
Eve glowered at him. "Prisoner exchange?"
They glared at each other, then swapped pans and started scooping.
Claire was just about to join in when the front doorbell rang, a lilting silvery sound. It wasn't a scary sound, but Eve and Shane froze and looked at each other, and that was scary, somehow. Shane put his plate down on the granite countertop, licked bacon grease from his fingers, and said, "Get her out of sight."
Eve nodded. She dropped her own plate onto the counter, grabbed Claire's wrist, and hustled her to the pantry - a door half hidden in the shadow of the awkwardly placed refrigerator. It was big, dark, and dusty, shelves crowded with old cans of yams and asparagus and glass jars of ancient jellies. There was a light with a string pull above, but Eve didn't turn it on. She reached behind a row of murky-looking cans of fruit and hit some kind of a switch. There was a grating rumble, then a click, and part of the back wall swung open.
Eve pushed it back, reached in, and grabbed a flashlight that she handed to Claire. "Inside," she said.
"I'm going to turn the light on out here, but try to keep that flashlight off if you hear voices. It could show through the cracks." Claire nodded, a little dazed, and crouched down to crawl through the small opening into...a big empty room, stone floored, no windows. A few spiderwebs in the corners, and loads of dust, but otherwise it didn't look too bad.
Until Eve shut the door, and then the darkness slammed down, and Claire hastily flicked on the flashlight, moved to the nearest corner, and knelt down there, breathing fast and hard.
Just one minute ago, they'd been laughing about bacon and eggs, and all of a sudden...what the hell had just happened? And why was there a secret compartment in this house? One with - so far as she could tell - no other entrances or exits?
She heard distant voices, and hastily thumbed off the flashlight. That was bad. She'd never really been afraid of the dark, but dark wasn't really dark most of the time.... There were stars, moonlight, distant streetlights.
This was pitch-black, take-no-prisoners dark, and she had the ice-cold thought that anything could be right next to her, reaching out for her, and she'd never see it coming.
Claire bit down hard on her lip, gripped the flashlight tightly, and slid down the wall until her searching hand found the rough wood of the door she'd come in through. A little light was leaking in around it, barely a glimmer but enough to ease the pounding in her chest.
Voices. Shane's, and someone else's. A man's voice, deeper than Shane's. "...standard inventory."
"Sir, there's nobody living here but what's on the roster. Just the three of us." Shane sounded subdued and respectful, which didn't seem like him. Not that she knew him that well, but he was kind of a smart-ass.
"Which one are you?" the voice asked.
"Shane Collins, sir."
"Get your third in here," the voice said.
"Well, I would, but - Michael's not here. He's out until tonight. You want to check back then?..."
"Never mind." Claire, straining her ears, heard paper rustling. "You're Eve Rosser?"
"Yes, sir." Eve sounded respectful, but brisk.
"Moved out of your parents' house - eight months ago?"
"Yes, sir."
"Employed?"
"At Common Grounds, you know, the coffee - "
The man, whoever he was, interrupted her. "You. Collins. Any employment?" Clearly talking to Shane.
"I'm between jobs, sir. You know how it is."
"Keep looking. We don't like slackers in Morganville. Everybody contributes."
"Yes, sir. I'll keep it in mind, sir."
A brief pause. Maybe there had been a little bit more smart-ass in Shane's response than there should have been. Claire deliberately slowed her breathing, trying to hear more.
"You left town for a couple of years, boy. What brings you back?"
"Homesick, sir." Yes, it was definitely back in his voice, and even Claire knew that was a bad thing.
"Missed all my old friends."
She heard Eve clear her throat. "Sir, I'm sorry, but I've got work in a half hour...?"
More paper shuffling. "One other thing. Here's a picture of a girl that disappeared from her dorm last night. You haven't seen her?"
They both chorused a "No."
He must not have believed them, because he didn't sound convinced. "What's in here?" He didn't wait to hear a response; he just opened the outer door of the pantry. Claire flinched and held her breath. "You always leave the light on?"
"I was getting some jam when you rang, sir. I probably forgot to turn it off," Eve said. She sounded nervous. "Sorry."
Click. The light in the pantry went out, taking what little there was seeping through the door with it. Claire barely controlled a gasp. Don't move. Don't move. She just knew he - whoever he was - was standing there in the dark, looking and listening.
And then, finally, she heard him say, "You ring the station if you see that girl. She's got herself in some trouble. We're supposed to help her get straightened out."
"Yes, sir," Eve said, and the pantry door shut. The conversation moved away, became softer and softer until it faded into nothing.
Claire switched on the flashlight, covered it with her hand, and pointed it at the corner - only a little light escaped, just enough to convince her that no evil zombie was sneaking up on her in the dark. And then she waited. It seemed like a long time before there were two sharp raps on the door, and it swung open in a blaze of electric light. Eve's stark white makeup and black eyeliner looked even scarier than before.
"It's okay," she said, and helped Claire out of the hidden room. "He's gone."
"Oh, the hell it's okay," Shane said behind her. He had his arms folded across his chest, and rocked back and forth, frowning. "Those assholes have her picture. They're looking for her. What'd you do, Claire? Knife the mayor or something?"
"Nothing!" she blurted. "I - I don't know why - maybe it's that they're just worried because I didn't show up last night?"
"Worried?" Shane laughed bitterly. "Yeah, that's it. They're worried about you. Right. I'm going to have to talk this over with Michael. If they're going to turn the town upside down looking for you, either you're too hot to stay in Morganville, or we need to get you under some kind of Protection, fast."
He said it the same way Eve had. "But - maybe the police - ?"
"That was the police," Eve said. "Told you. They run the town. These guys work for the vamps - they're not vamps themselves, but they're scary enough without the fangs. Look, can you call your parents? Get them to pull you out of school and take you home or something?"
Sure. That would be the easiest thing in the world, only it would mean failure, and they'd never believe a word of this stuff, ever, and if she tried to explain it, she'd end up drugged and in therapy for the rest of her life. And any chance - any chance - of making it to Yale or MIT or Caltech would be blown completely. She supposed it was kind of dumb to be thinking of it that way, but those things were real to her.
Vampires? Not so much.
"But - I haven't done anything!" she said, and looked from Shane to Eve, and back again. "How can they be after me if I didn't do anything?"
"Life ain't fair," Shane said, with all the certainty of two more years of experience at it. "You must have pissed off the wrong people, is all I know. What's the girl's name? The one who smacked you around?"
"M-Monica."
They both stared at her.
"Oh, crap," Eve said, horrified. "Monica Morrell?"
Shane's face went...blank. Completely blank, except for his eyes, and there was something pretty scary going on behind them. "Monica," he repeated. "How come nobody told me?"
Eve was watching him, biting her lip. "Sorry, Shane. We would have - I swear, I thought she left town.
Went off to college somewhere else."
Shane shook it off, whatever it was, and shrugged, trying to look like he didn't care. It was obvious to Claire that he did, though. "She probably couldn't stand not being the queen bee, and had to come begging back to Daddy to buy her some grades."
"Shane - "
"I'm fine. Don't worry about me."
"She probably doesn't even remember you," Eve blurted, and then looked as if she wished she hadn't said it. "I - that's not what I meant. I'm sorry."
He laughed, and it sounded wrong and a little bit shaky. There was a short, odd silence, and then Eve changed the subject by resolutely picking up her plate of cooling bacon and eggs.
And then went still and round-eyed. "Oh, shit," she said, and then covered her mouth.
"What?"
She pointed at the plates on the counter. Shane's, hers...and Claire's. "Three plates. He knew something was up. We told him Michael wasn't around. No wonder he kept poking."
Shane said nothing, but Claire could see he was - if possible - even more upset. He didn't show it much, but he picked up his plate and walked away, out into the living room, then up the steps two at a time.
His upstairs door slammed.
Eve bit her lip, watching after him.
"So...Shane and Monica...?" Claire guessed.
Eve kept staring at the doorway. "Not like you're thinking," she said. "He wouldn't touch that skank in a million years. But they were in high school together, and Shane - got on her bad side. Just like you did."
Claire's appetite for breakfast was suddenly gone. "What happened?"
"He stood up to her, and his house burned. He nearly died," she said. "His - his sister wasn't so lucky.
Michael got him out of town, off on his own, before he did something crazy. He's been gone a couple of years. Just came back right before I moved in here." Eve forced a bright smile. "Let's eat, yeah? I'm starving."
They sat out in the living room, chatting about nothing, not talking about the thing that was most important: what to do.
Because, Claire sensed, neither one of them had a clue.